As often happens with old people, they may not remember that someone visited them an hour ago, but they can recall the past with extraordinary clarity and precision. This was certainly the case with Madame Petrova’s recollection of the scandal at the Ritz seventy-odd years before. Animated by her memories, she recounted the events surrounding the scandal in surprising detail, including names, personalities, exact locations within the hotel and even conversations and rumours.
‘What happened after José Gonzales was arrested?’ asked Jack. ‘What happened to his wife and daughter?’
‘They remained at the Ritz,’ said Madame Petrova. ‘They had nowhere else to go, you see. That’s when Dolores and I became friends; close friends. I lived at the Ritz at the time, and we all felt for Dolores and what happened to her and her poor husband. All of us living at the hotel were a bit like a family, including the staff.
‘Göring was crazy, and very dangerous. Everyone was terrified of him, and all of us were potential suspects. No one felt safe. The theft of the skull almost sent the Reichsmarschall mad. I can remember terrible scenes in the lobby. Göring was shouting abuse at the Abwehr officers, calling them incompetent imbeciles and accusing them of deliberate failure to find the culprit and recover his precious artefact.’
Madame Petrova paused and took a sip of coffee from her tiny porcelain cup, her arthritic fingers shaking. ‘That’s when he called in the dashing young officer from Bavaria to take charge of the investigation.’
Jack sat up as if pricked by a hot needle from behind. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to tingle. It was a familiar sensation, a premonition, often heralding an unexpected revelation or surprise. ‘Can you remember his name?’ Jack asked, sounding hoarse.
‘Oh yes; he was the brother of Göring’s doctor. His name was Steinberger. Sturmbannfuehrer Wolfgang Steinberger, a most charming, devilishly handsome man.’ Madame Petrova pointed to the piano. ‘I think he’s in one of the photos, right here. Let me show you.’
The countess and Jack left Madame Petrova’s room soon after that. Madame Petrova had suddenly become very tired and confused, and reluctant to answer any more questions. The nurse suggested it would be best to continue the conversation another time.
‘This is unbelievable,’ said Jack, looking at the photograph he had borrowed from Madame Petrova. It showed an elegantly dressed young woman standing at the bottom of an imposing staircase – apparently somewhere in the Ritz – next to a tall young man wearing the distinct uniform of the notorious SS. It was difficult to make out the precise features of the man’s face because the picture was quite small and the image a little blurred. However, there was something familiar about the officer in the photograph. His stance, the casual, almost arrogant confidence in the body language reminded Jack of another photo he had found in the ruins of a cottage destroyed by bushfire in the Blue Mountains in Australia three years before.
‘The far-reaching tentacles of the past never cease to amaze me,’ said Jack pensively. He handed the photo to the countess sitting next to him in the back of the Bentley, which François was driving. The countess had taken the old car because hers was being serviced. ‘Quite often the important clues are right there in front of us,’ continued Jack.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the countess.
‘There’s something odd about the way she’s looking at the officer, don’t you think? Look at the way he’s holding her arm. What does that tell you?’
‘Now that you mention it…’ said the countess.
‘What do you see?’
‘Intimacy.’
‘Exactly. Not quite what you’d expect in the circumstances, is it? The beautiful, vulnerable young wife of the man who had just been arrested and tortured by the Nazis, looking adoringly at the young SS officer?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘There’s a lot more to all this, and it all has to do with Dolores and Sturmbannfuehrer Steinberger, I’m sure of it,’ said Jack. Hidden corners of our lives, he thought, remembering Señora Gonzales’ cryptic reference to Steinberger at her house in Mexico.
‘I see what you mean …’ said the countess.
‘And wasn’t it strange how Madame Petrova suddenly changed the subject and pretended to become confused when I questioned her about Dolores and the handsome Nazi? She didn’t want to talk about it, and I think I know why.’
‘Oh?’
‘Because of her friendship with Dolores.’
‘Fear of betrayal?’
‘Something like that.’
‘After all these years?’
‘Sure. Friendship is a powerful bond. And let’s not forget, Madame Petrova lives in the past,’ said Jack.
‘Then she’s unlikely to tell you more.’
‘I’m afraid you may be right. However, she did give us an important clue, perhaps unintentionally.’
‘What about?’
‘She let something slip just before we left. She told us that the skull was eventually recovered by Steinberger, and that Dolores was somehow involved. Do you remember what I asked her after that?’
‘Yes. You asked her if that had happened before or after the photo was taken.’
‘Exactly. And she answered without hesitation. She was certain it had happened well before the picture was taken. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the Nazi officer who apparently exposed the culprit and recovered Göring’s precious treasure, and the woman who was somehow involved pose for a photo suggesting intimacy?’
‘Good point … So, where to from here?’
‘Not sure. Mademoiselle Darrieux doesn’t appear to know much about Dolores either. That’s why she’s so keen to interview her. And what I find particularly intriguing is this,’ said Jack, becoming quite animated, ‘She knows about the skull affair, but I’m not sure she knows about Steinberger and what followed.’
‘A dead end?’
‘I don’t believe in dead ends. In a way, this is just the beginning. I can sense it …’
‘I may be able to help,’ interjected François, who had of course overheard the conversation.
‘In what way?’ asked the countess, surprised.
‘I have a friend who works at the Ritz. She’s a teacher at the Ritz-Escoffier School right next to the hotel. I visited her yesterday while I was waiting. We had lunch. Her grandfather worked at the Ritz for many years, right through the war. She often speaks about him and his stories. He got her the job.’
‘Is he still alive?’ asked Jack.
‘Not sure, but I can find out.’
‘Could you?’
‘Of course.’
Jack turned to the countess. ‘See, there’s no such thing as a dead end,’ he said, patting her on the hand, ‘only challenges. I think I’ll leave this one to Mademoiselle Darrieux to tackle.’
‘Now that you are partners?’ interjected the countess.
‘Exactly. She almost seems to live at the Ritz and knows everyone. Let’s see what she can come up with. After that, it’s definitely time for a little chat with Señora Gonzales. Hopefully, I’ll have a few surprises for her.’
‘I’m sure you will, Jack. Somehow, you never disappoint a lady …’
38
Akhil Achari hadn’t left the blackjack table for hours. He was on a winning streak. Mesmerised, he watched the cards dance in the dealer’s hands in front of him. Perfected by countless games, the dealer’s fingers moved with elegant precision like the fingers of a concert pianist gliding expertly over the keyboard.
Paulus had been watching Achari for some time. The player sitting next to Achari picked up his chips and got out of his seat. Time to make a move, thought Paulus. He walked across to the table, sat down next to Achari and joined the game. ‘Are you going to share some of your good fortune with us,’ he said, turning to Achari, ‘or are you too busy winning? You haven’t been in touch …’
‘I can explain,’ mumbled
Achari, taking another card.
‘Excellent. Now would be a good time. Look, here you go again. Another win. I suggest you call it a night and cash in before you luck runs out … We need to talk.’
Reluctantly, Achari collected his chips and followed Paulus to the bar. ‘A man came to see her yesterday at the institute,’ he said. ‘I was going to call you …’
‘What man?’ asked Paulus.
‘A stranger. She certainly wasn’t expecting him. She hardly knows anyone in Sydney. They spoke for about half an hour in one of the conference rooms and then he left.’
‘So?’
‘He gave her something; a small parcel. I saw her bring it back to her lab and open it.’
‘Do you know what was in it?’
‘Not really, except for this: she sat at her desk all afternoon, reading. I can see her from my workbench through the glass. She seemed totally absorbed. I went in once to ask her a question, but she wasn’t interested and told me to come back later. That isn’t like her.’
‘I expect there’s a good reason you’re telling me all this?’ said Paulus.
‘Sure is.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘I got a good look at what she was reading. It was some kind of notebook or journal. It had a greenish cover. By itself, unremarkable, but I recognised the crazy diagrams and the handwriting …’
‘Oh?’
‘Professor K’s. I’m sure of it.’
‘Have you seen that notebook before?’
‘No; it looked quite different from the others.’
‘Now that is interesting …’ said Paulus. ‘Did you ask her about the visitor?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That he was a friend of the professor, that’s all.’
‘Does this friend have a name?’
‘I asked the receptionist …’
‘And?’
‘I think my winning streak deserves to last a little longer, don’t you agree?’ said Achari, enjoying himself. For the first time, he felt he had the upper hand.
Paulus reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of hundred dollar notes and put them on the bar in front of Achari. ‘Does five thousand sound like a reasonable winning streak for a name?’
‘George Papadoulis,’ said Achari. ‘And I have a little bonus for you …’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s an accountant,’ said Achari, beaming. ‘Here’s his business card. He left it at reception.’
‘Keep up the good work,’ said Paulus and put another thousand dollars on the bar. ‘And do keep in touch.’
‘To keep up my winning streak, you mean?’
‘Matter for you.’
Achari stuffed the money into his pocket, got off the bar stool and walked back to the gaming table.
39
François was in his element. He loved the old Bentley and enjoyed driving it, even if it meant having to manoeuvre the car carefully through the busy Paris morning traffic.
‘Excellent lead,’ said Jack. ‘Thank you.’
‘Mademoiselle Darrieux seemed happy,’ said François.
‘You can say that again,’ said Jack, remembering the stunning Chanel chiffon creation that had greeted him that morning. The impromptu rendezvous to exchange information had turned into a high society adventure of stellar proportions, no doubt carefully stage-managed by the indefatigable Mademoiselle Darrieux herself. She had once again made sure she was the head-turning centre of attention. Jack was certain the whole of Paris considered them an item by now. The eager paparazzi waiting outside to get a photo of them leaving together only confirmed Jack’s suspicions. Exhausted, but elated, Jack was on his way back to the chateau after a sumptuous champagne breakfast with Mademoiselle Darrieux at her favourite Paris café.
Despite being a long shot, Jack’s intrepid new glittering socialite ‘partner’ had quickly tracked down François’ contact – a delightful gentleman in his eighties – who had worked at the Ritz during the war as a bellboy. With access to every corner of the labyrinthine establishment, bellboys were the invisible eyes and ears of the hotel, and therefore a reliable source of information of the most secret and intimate kind.
The old man remembered the scandal of the crystal skull surprisingly well, and was able to provide some exciting new information and promising leads regarding Señora Gonzales and the Germans.
This changes everything, thought Jack, reaching for his little notebook. He was going over his notes again, trying to piece everything together, when his phone rang. It was Lola with some disturbing news. Isis had an unexpected turn during the night and was unable to travel to the US. The critical brain surgery was therefore, at least for the time being, off limits. Understandably, this had thrown everything into turmoil. Confined to bed under strict medical supervision in the privacy of her grandmother’s home, Isis had requested an urgent meeting with Jack.
Pegasus was already in the air by the time Lola spoke to Jack. She was taking Sir Humphrey back to London and suggested Jack meet the plane in Paris on its return journey to Mexico. This gave Jack only a few hours to pack and get to the airport.
‘Bad news?’ asked François.
‘It would appear so.’
Tristan walked into Jack’s room and watched him pack his duffel bag. ‘You are leaving,’ he said, the disappointment on his face obvious.
Jack nodded. ‘Isis …’
‘I know.’
‘How do you know?’
Tristan shrugged. ‘Just do.’
Jack looked at Tristan. He knows exactly what I’m thinking and how I feel, thought Jack, and what I’m about to say. The special bond between them was growing stronger by the day.
‘I know I promised,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll make it up to you … soon.’ Jack had promised to spend some time with Tristan during the school holidays and take him on a trip. That was a year ago. Somehow, something had always come up.
‘Take me with you,’ said Tristan.
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes. I can help you. You know I can. And I can help Isis too …’ said Tristan, getting excited.
‘Do I need help?’
‘Yes, you do. Danger …’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I saw things again …’
‘Katerina won’t allow it,’ said Jack, shaking his head.
‘She will, if you ask her. Holidays have just started. There’s no school for the next three weeks. We’ve nothing planned here.’ Tristan pulled something out of his pocket and held it up. It was his passport. ‘It’s meant to be. I’m ready.’
For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Jack was pleased. The aura of calm confidence radiating from the boy had banished the apprehension he had felt about the unexpected trip and what would be waiting for him. His mind racing, Jack looked at Tristan. Such a wise head on shoulders so young, he marvelled. Extraordinary. ‘I have to call Lola first…’ said Jack.
Without saying another word, Tristan ran over to his friend and gave him a hug.
It was already dark by the time Pegasus landed. Tristan could barely contain his excitement as he watched the sleek plane taxi towards the terminal reserved for private jets. The countess had reluctantly given her permission for him to accompany Jack to Mexico for a few days. Lola had no objections and could see no reason why Tristan shouldn’t come along. She too had sensed something special in the boy and remembered Jack’s words: He can hear the whisper of angels and see eternity. With Isis facing the toughest challenge of her life, hearing the whisper of angels, she thought, might come in handy.
‘You can sit next to me while we take off,’ said Lola, putting on her headphones. ‘Buckle up.’
‘You will fly the plane?’ said Tristan, his eyes as big as saucers.
‘Only during take-off. I love the power of this little beauty.’
‘How cool is that?’ said Tristan, his cheeks glowing with excitement. He had a new hero – Lola – and couldn
’t wait to post something about her on Facebook for his schoolmates back home to feel envious about.
‘Ready guys? Here we go,’ said Lola gently pushing the throttle forward. The powerful engines whined into action as the plane began to move slowly away from its bay.
‘Hold on tight, mate,’ said Jack putting his hand on Tristan’s shoulder from behind. ‘You’re in for the ride of your life.’
After take-off, Tristan pleaded with Lola to be allowed to stay in the cockpit with the pilots. This gave Lola and Jack an opportunity to have a private conversation in the back of the plane.
‘I barely slept a wink since I left the chateau that morning,’ said Lola, pouring Jack a drink. ‘And after such an enchanting evening. That one phone call changed our lives. Isis in a coma with a brain tumour … Who would have believed it? To me, she seemed invincible. It’s been a nightmare ever since.’
‘How is she?’ asked Jack.
‘Not well, I’m afraid. At first, Sir Humphrey was all upbeat and full of optimism. He reassured us and gave us hope. Stiff upper lip and all that. However, when Isis suddenly deteriorated, his mood changed. A trip to the US for that vital operation appears out of the question at the moment. Apparently, there’s only one surgeon who can do it, and even that is debatable right now. We are trying to persuade him to come to Mexico to examine Isis.’
‘Any luck?’
‘We are working on it.’
‘Who is looking after her now?’
‘A whole team with a top specialist in charge.’
‘And Sir Humphrey?’
‘He had to return to London. Other patients; commitments. You know what scared me most?’
‘What?’
‘On the flight back to London, he looked a beaten man. He’s known Isis all her life. I have never seen him like that. He looked …’
‘What?’
‘Defeated,’ whispered Lola.
‘Come on …’ Jack realised it was time to change direction. ‘Do you know why I’ve been summonsed? My investigation has barely begun. Why the urgency?’
‘That’s simple. Isis wants to know what happened to her parents, and why. She obviously feels that time is running out for her. She’s become obsessed with the subject. And who can blame her?’
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 20
